Life is a travelling to the edge of knowledge, then a leap taken.

Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.

Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.

There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.

Sex and beauty are inseparable, like life and consciousness. And the intelligence which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.

The modern pantheist not only sees the god in everything, he takes photographs of it.

It's autumn and everybody feels like a disembodied spirit then.